Monday, January 4, 2016

Bacon's Blood (58)

The first image that
drew his focus when Blow pushed through the courtroom doors was the
small white face atop the billowing black robe of Circuit Judge Roger
Pendleton. He (the judge) was perched on his leather-padded throne at
the very center of the elevated, polished walnut furniture ensemble
that comprised The Bench. As the doors swished shut behind Blow he
saw the judge tilt his face downward and fix his countenance upon
him. Blow's peripheral vision detected his client seated at the
defense table; five yards away, the prosecutor at his. The air
snapped with electric anticipation.

“Your
honor.” Blow's salute as he brisk-walked up the aisle between the
rows of empty benches.

Pendleton spoke into a
little black curved microphone on his desktop. He sounded friendly.
“Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Mr. Stone. Hope you had time to get
something to eat.”

“Yes,
sir, Judge.” He pushed through the bar gate and headed for the
table. Elvin Bacon was facing him. The vacant look was gone, replaced
by something new, unfamiliar. No smile, no sneer. The eyes were
focused, but there was something strange in them. Bacon returned
Blow's polite nod. It occurred to Blow that Leonard wasn't present.
Another flag.

Blow
went to his chair. The judge held up a hand. “Not yet, Mr. Stone.
I'd like to meet with you and Mr. Gobble in chambers.” Blow heard
Gobble push to his feet. Bacon started to rise, but Pendleton checked
him.

“Just
counsel, Mr. Bacon, for now.”

“I'm
an attorney, your honor.” Bacon's voice was tense.

“You're
also the defendant. Unless you're representing yourself you will
allow us this conference. We won't be--”

Bacon shot to his
feet. “Dammit, Judge, I have a right--”

BANG
came
the gavel, sharp as a pistol report. A deputy, standing in for the
bailiff who presumably was still at lunch, moved hesitantly toward
the defense table. “You have a right to go straight to jail for
contempt,” Pendleton snapped, “and you can exercise that right
with just one more outburst in my court. Otherwise I suggest you take
your seat, Mr. Bacon, and mind your manners. I promise you we will
not be long.”

Bacon nodded almost
imperceptibly as a signal of compliance, but remained standing. He
turned back to Blow, who shrugged a shoulder and lifted his eyebrows.
Despite the ambiguous intensity in his client's expression, he held
off vocalizing the implicit “What the fuck?” Bacon's eyes had
hardened to a feral glint. They hadn't relinquished the estrangement
he'd seen after the testimony, but there was something personal now,
it seemed: a warning?

"Shouldn't we wait for the reporter?" Blow
asked the judge. He'd waited until he and Gobble reached the bench
before speaking. Pendleton was already standing.

"No need to call her back from lunch just yet. This
doesn't have to be on the record. Let's get some privacy." He
turned and led the two lawyers through the door that separated the
courtroom from his secretary's office and his chambers. Popping open
the snaps on his robe as he walked, the judge had the pleated garment
open by the time he reached his desk. He peeled it off, tossed it
over the back of his chair and slumped into its leather cushions. He
motioned to the two chairs in front of his desk, and immediately
plunged into a plate of Chinese takeout nestled among piles of
papers.

"Make yourselves comfortable," he said,
lifting a plastic forkful of lo mein to his mouth. He swallowed the
noodles, sipped from a bottle of water, and dabbed his mouth with a
paper napkin. "Please forgive me." He waved his fork at the
food. "I'm starving. Now then, gentlemen, we have us a
situation. It seems the defendant is changing his plea to guilty."

Blow felt his jaw drop as his tongue searched for
something to say. When nothing came out he glanced at Gobble, who
looked equally dumbfounded save for what appeared to be a partial
grin on his ordinarily somber face. The judge forked up another load
of lo mein. He tried to speak while chewing, but the sounds were
incoherent. Finally, looking at Blow, he said, "I tried to talk
him out of it, Joe. Told him I thought the jury was going to acquit.
He shook his head. Said he didn't care what the jury did. Your client
is one stubborn son of a bitch."

Pendleton turned to Gobble. "Fred, this is your
lucky day."

"Well now wait a minute, Judge--"

"What? You don't want a conviction?"

"Of course I do, but you're going to tell me the
defendant wants to get off easy. The jury could find him guilty of
murder. We should wait for their verdit."

"Oh, fuck, Fred. Get real here. You don't have a
case. If this were a bench trial I'd've thrown it out on Joe's motion
to strike after you rested. The jury's going to let him walk, and you
know it."

Blow's face had gone mobile with confusion. He was
staring at Gobble, whose cheeks were reddening.

"Well, that carries one to ten," Gobble
muttered, "or does he want a suspended sentence?"

"He's waiving that. Leaving it up to me. This is
not a plea bargan, gentlemen. He's throwing himself on the mercy of
the court. Fred, you can object, but I'll overrule. Mr. Bacon is
handing you a gift. I were you, I'd accept it gracefully."

Blow finally spoke. "Your honor, did he give you
any reason why?"

"I asked him, Joe. Believe it or not he said it was
his conscience. He said it hit him—those were his words—hit him
when he was testifying that his actions on the boat, or rather his
inaction, constituted negligence. He said he should have pulled her
away from the side when she started choking. And when she fell
overboard he should jumped in after her. The blood in his eyes would
have washed off in the water. He froze, he said. He almost wept when
he told me this. He froze, and it might have cost a woman her life.
He said if the woman whose body was found was her, then he was guilty
of manslaughter."

"What if it wasn't, your honor? Did he say anything
about his theory she was a professional swimmer?"

"I did't ask him that. He didn't mention it. That's
something we may never know. Just like we may never know if his
ancestor is down there under the river. The thing is, Mr. Bacon is
not willing to rely on that supposition. He said he just wants to do
the right thing, if for no other reason than so he can live with
himself."

Blow started to ask whether Bacon had consulted with his
brother before making the decision. He was curious about the
wheelchair woman but did not wish to raise any new questions. Maybe
bringing Leonard into the discussion would lead in that direction. As
if reading his mind, Pendleton mentioned Leonard before Blow could
find the right words.

"You might find it interesting, Joe, that your
client and his brother—Leonard, I believe—had gotten into quite
an argument before I returned to the bench. I had just started eating
when I heard shouting. They were standing at the table. Faces
scarlet. Both men. I was afraid they might start physically fighting.
I had to order Leonard to leave the courtroom. I guess he was gone
when you got here?"

"I didn't see Leonard, judge. Did you by any chance
hear what they were arguing about?"

"I did not. But once your client told me what he
wanted to do, I assumed that was the nature of the shouting match. I
suppose were it my brother in the same position as your client I
might have gotten a little carried away myself.

"Now, look. I've got to eat here or I'm liable to
get pretty ornery. Low blood sugar. Why don't you two go on and
finish your lunch. Take your client with you, if you like. Joe. I'll
dismiss the jurors when they return, and when you two get back I'll
hear Mr. Bacon's plea and enter my ruling." He waved a hand
dismissing them, sipped some water.